let me steal this moment from you
by Madam Lady Lovely
Summary: "Everything has its' beginning and its' end, Frankie, it is up to us to decide what will be our beginning and what will be our end." It is a craving, some deep forgein feeling neither could place until they had fallen headfirst into the abyss with neither to hold onto but each other. When John enters your life, when John changes you, nothing you knew makes sense ever again. MHxOC
1. Do You Want To Feel How It Feels?

Lawrence's eyes bored into her, she could feel them in the back of her skull as she stared at the dark, crackling television screen. Her ears straining for any sound from the deafening silence on the ancient speakers.

"Don't," there's a hardness there, he knows exactly what she's thinking.

Somehow he always did, just like John had before -

"It's not what John would want," she says, but the words are hollow no matter how much she wants to mean them.

His hand is soft on her shoulder, comforting, she can't help throwing her own over it, gripping tightly, "John would be proud of you."

"Would he?"

In a terrible moment that would change her life entirely, Frankie knew she didn't want to die. No matter how many times she had prayed to just slip away into sweet release, in this moment it was no longer true. Perhaps because she had never been offered another option. But he had given it to her; die or fight back.

"Neither of you have become all that you could have been," the TV crackling to life and a voice fills the room. The room that is covered wall to ceiling in nail after nail, so close together, glinting in the low light of the dirty room, "A man who could have been anything, done anything, and instead you have become a violent addict. Who wastes his dead father's money in the darkest, seediest underbelly you are so greedy to find," they both know what will happen, she can feel her fiance's predatory gaze, she refuses to look from the television, "And you, Francesca, so willing to understand and help any broken lamb that crosses your path, it wasn't long before a wolf would burst from the skin, was it? Can you end it all or will you die at his hands as the statistics seem to promise," she finally rips her gaze away, but no towards him, even though he's all but demanding it, no, across the room there is a pit, "You will have one minute to decide, as your impending choice weighs down on you, pushing you forward."

There's the clunk of metal as the video ends, the walls and ceiling shutter to life, beginning to push downwards and forwards. She finally looks at him, looking around with that wide eyed junkie look, too scared to be angry. Too hopped up to quite understand what was happening. But she does, taking a step forward when she felt the slightest poke of the nails against her back. She's stuck inside all day, the news keeps her company most evenings. She knows what's happening, she knows that both of them won't make it out alive, and for the first time in a long time, she wants to live. Adrian wouldn't think twice about trying to save his skin by sacrificing hers. Why should she? She takes another step forward, watching him scramble in front of her.

"What's happening, baby?" that same pleading look that often graced his features after a particularly brutal beating, "You're not gonna let me die, right?"

She holds her ground, metal digging into the tender skin of her back, feet tensing for a running start. He runs to the edge of the pit, another look of fear taking over his face. There would be no going back, the sound of her clothes ripping and the warm blood trickling down her body ground her. Never again. It takes everything in her not to think about the pain, but there isn't time. A few seconds longer and he'll figure it out, drugs would only slow his mind for so long. Ripping her body from the spikes Frankie felt very thankful for adrenaline. With their combined weight on his shaky feet, they both tumbled into the bed of equally terrifying nails before them. He gasps, a deep wheezing sound that ends quickly, his body crushed between the splintered floor and her panting body. Her head is fuzzy, the pain is starting to set in, deep in her muscles. She might still die here, bleeding on the ground. But it wouldn't be because of that fucking monster and that's what mattered.

But she'd won. She'd truly fucking won.

"Do you like how control feels, Frankie?


	2. Dear Rabbit

"He let you go?" but the Detective in front her doesn't seem surprised, as much as he attempts to feign it for his partner. Why should he? He knows her.

He doesn't know she knows him, "I passed," resisting the natural urge to shrug with the reminder of the pain it would bring, "I cherished my life, Detective."

Mark Hoffman. Her duty to John, a promise she intended to keep.

You can always say no. But know I would never ask of you anything I believed you were unable to give.

"Why your boyfriend?"

But he knows the answer, if John hasn't told him yet, the files are there for any cop to get their hands on. It wasn't as if she hadn't tried to get away in the beginning. Before it got so bad. Before… She looked at the other Detective, darting her eyes away quickly. Uncomfortable with his presence, he hadn't been there at the scene, he hadn't seen exactly what hat happened. Detective Mark Hoffman had, which could be no coincidence, sent either by John or himself.

He can not fail, he can not fall even deeper into brutality.

What do you want me to do?

She turns her dancing gaze to him, still surprised at the man that looked back at her. Adrian had been handsome but this man truly made her toy with the word beautiful. It was an unnerving feeling in it's own right but somehow welcome. It caused a warm feeling to settle in the pit of her stomach.

"One have you must have looked at my files," she doesn't look between them as was expected, she kept her eyes on him.

Taking in the hardness of his jaw, "You can go, Fisk" voice hard, commanding, there will be no questions. It sends a shiver up and down her spine, "I've been over them."

His partner makes it clear he isn't doing it for her benefit, he'd be happy to stick around and make her sweat it out. He would have lost. When the door closes, she places her bandaged on the table, fingers spread wide, he looks. She wants him too, none if it works if doesn't find out how much a damsel in distress she might truly be.

There is a kind of control in weakness, Frankie, a hidden power that so few learn to harness. You have, it's how you stayed a live day after day, it's how you passed my test. It's your own weaponized control and if you wield it wisely it can help you do the unimaginable.

"What he did to me, day after day, was a thousand times worse than this," turning her hands so her palms faced upwards, they're not as bad, barely pin pricks, protected by a corpse, "Those files, that's not even the half of it, Detective," it's the backs that are the deepest, the ugliest, "This was better, I understand that now, as fucked as that is, and believe me I know how fucked it sounds," a smile on her lips, the real unbreakable kind, "He'll never touch me again. And I will never let anyone else do what he did. I won, Detective Hoffman."'

With his back to the mirror they can't see the quirk of his eyebrow, the predatory look that darts across his eyes, but she can. She had succeeded in piquing his interest, that was good. He runs through the obvious questions; did she recognize anything, what about the kidnapping, etcetera, etcetera. Nothing she could give an honest answer too. Not here, not now, but one day she will. One day they'll sit down and talk about it all because they would have to.

"Anything else you can think of, Ms. Evans?" she shakes her head. He nods, climbing to his feet and offering her his hand, she takes it gently, "We might have to sit down and talk to you again. With serial crimes…"

She tries not to think of how warm and strong his hand had been in her own, "Every detail counts. I watch a lot of television," smiling awkwardly as she pulled her heavy jacket off the back of the chair and over her shoulders, "Do you have a phone I can use to call a cab? I've never-" she swallows hard, "I don't have one."

His eyes glance over her, taking in her form in a much different way then he had when she'd first walked in the door, "If you can wait a few minutes, I can drop you off,"

Turning towards the door and opening it for her, she stepped forward, trying to keep her eyes from the other detectives that had no doubt been watching their interactions. She'd barely managed. Instead, she follows where he's gesturing towards his desk.

"I wouldn't want to be any trouble," she says, but he pulls back his seat and offers it to her instead.

He shakes his head, "No trouble. I'm sure you'd feel a lot better with a cop than a stranger," A lot safer with me, the words though unspoken seem to hang in the air.

He turns, hurrying to whatever it is he needs to finish before he can take her to her shithole apartment in the junkie neighborhood. It hadn't been what she expected but it works for her purpose. She drums her fingers against his desk, eyes on the photograph that seemed to be the only personal momento. A beautiful, dark haired young woman that seemed so happy, even against the fading of the picture.

Let him save you, let him pull you deep into his world. Whisper in his ear when my words hold little power. Keep him in this world and out of the abyss. Take control of the uncontrollable. Just as I do.


	3. i hate to stay but then i hate to leave

Her address is on file, but that's not why he knows where they're going. How long had he been watching her? Had he carried her into that room? They both know the answer to that question, neither is prepared to ask or answer. There's a strange flutter in her stomach at the thought of him touching her, it feels nice. More than nice, it reminds her of before. When she could still feel, when things mattered. Maybe that was why it felt _nice, _before had all too quickly become now. She wasn't quite prepared for that. They pull to a stop slowly in front of the falling down apartment complex that had never really been home and hopefully wouldn't be for much longer.

Everything about it seems to lean and crack, just like the inhabitants that mill around. Junkies, working girls, abusers. He'd answered calls here before he'd ever known about her, walking by the peeling navy paint of her door more times than he could count. It had taken John to show him what lay beyond, beyond that door, beyond the files. Her eyes don't look at the building though, no doubt she's sick of it. They bore into him, demanding he meet her gaze without so much as a word.

"He beat you," he finally says the words, unable to keep his eyes from her any longer, "He forced you," he grabs her wrist, tight, and it should hurt but it doesn't, there's a flutter at the base of the spine, "He deserved it."

Her eyes travel down his front to his grip on hers, eyeing the way their flesh presses together in a way completely unreadable to him. It's unnerving, he's not used to not knowing, he's not very good at it.

"I wanted to die, every day, because I thought it was the only way I'd get out," cocking her head to the side, the words rolling slowly out of her mouth as if she were tasting each word, "He gave me another option and now it's like…I can't even describe it," there's something almost like a smile on his face, the closest to one he's managed in years.

"If you think of anything else," the moment suddenly sobered by Sadie, an informant and her neighbor rounding the corner. He ripped his hand from hers as if she had burned him, and used it instead to pull a card out of his pocket, "Or…just call. Day or night."

She took it, seeing the cell phone number scribbled on the back, "Day or night," opening the door.

"Day or night, Frankie," neither missing how he calls her by her name as she steps into the rain.

_Do you like how control feels, Frankie?_

notes; sorry it's short and late guys. i threw out my back so i've been healing up from that. and i'm just trying to get from point a to point b with this one. i promise the next one will be longer. they'll be getting more exciting soon.


	4. six different ways inside my heart

She doesn't call that night. Why should she? She's finally free. She should be celebrating, going out to drink, enjoying it. But it feels so hollow. Instead she begins to clean, shoving anything to do with him into trash bag after trash bag. Scrubbing the floors, the walls, every nook and cranny. Laundry load after laundry load./ She keeps busy, trying not to think, trying to start over, until evening had past well into the night and on into the pink rays of the next morning. She sits on the freshly laundered cushion of her thoroughly vacuumed couch, her body exhausted and her mind racing a mile a minute. Now that it's been given the change, her thoughts won't let her body get the upperhand.

It's early. Far too early to call him. _Day or night. _John would tell her to call but that's not why she does. She does simply because she doesn't know what to do next. Adrian is gone, guilt free, gone from the world, gone from the shithole apartment she would be calling home still until further notice. Now that she wiped him all away, what happened next.

_You've reached Detective Hoffman. Leave a message._

She stares at the rising sun, listening to the electronic beep, "It's, uh, it's Frankie," chewing on her lower lip, not sure what to say next, "Just…call me back, if you can," flipping the phone closed and tossing it on the cushion next to her.

_You want me to fall in love with him?_

She climbed to her feet as she pushed her hair back, striding towards the window and popping it open, using a bit of her shoulder to lift it all the way open. She breathed deeply, as if somehow the morning air would solve everything. All it did was make her crave a cigarette.

_I want you to guide him. Falling in love? That's a choice you will have to make yourself._

So she has one, for 5 years he's told her what to do with her body. He'd smoked like a chimney, forcing her to quit, she wouldn't get back on them. But one more, just for the sake of spite, sounded alright.

_I'll do it._

She lifts the lid of the lock box she had happily broken into upon first arriving home, sliding the orange filter between her lips and lighting the end with a bit of trouble from the dying lighter.

_Then the first thing you must do is show him need, no fear. You have no reason for it anymore. Simple need. Can you do that?_

_Yes._

The phone jingles, over and over, she glances at it, exhaling slowly. She had to answer. More than that she wanted to answer. What would he do? How would he pretend? Or would he cast aside the charade all together? As unlikely as it sounded, the thought sent another of those tingles down her spine. Something she was beginning to think she'd have to get used to. She grabbed it, flipping it open.

"Mark," returning to her place by the window and dragging the cigarette again, "It's early I shou-"

"What's wrong?" his voice a deep croak, either he hadn't gone to bed yet or hadn't slept much.

"What happens next?" he wanted blunt and in all honesty it was the easiest option, "I cleaned my entire apartment. I threw out all his stuff. What do I do next?"

"Live your life," but they're hollow words and they both know it, "What are you asking, Frankie?"

She shakes her head, flicking her butt out the window, "I hate this apartment, I've always hated this apartment and now I'm stuck in it. It's not even my life anymore, he's gone and I'm still trapped," she can hear him sigh, "I'm asking what happens next."

There's silence, but she knows he's there. She stubs out the ember on the windowsill and throws it, "What do you want from me?" there's no malice, no annoyance, a simple question expecting a simple answer.

"I don't want to do this alone, Mark, not in this shitty life he made me live," it's the truth, it's exactly what John meant, and somehow it makes her feel almost guilty.

"One night, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah got it," watching the last of the pink fade from the sky, "Thank you."

There's silence and the click of him ending the call. Once more she flips the phone closed and throws it on the cushion.

_Can you? It sounds so easy now, but it will become harder. The lines will blur. You must be sure of yourself, you can never be sure of others._


	5. hypnotized by you if i should linger

He shouldn't, he absolutely shouldn't. Mark thinks about it all day and it lives in the back of his mind. He shouldn't want her in the first place and he can't exactly explain to himself why the feeling is so strong. It's almost as if it were something primal. Something from before words were necessary. He doesn't know. It's late by the time he gets out of the station, he almost doesn't expect her to be awake when he calls to let her know he's arrived to pick her up. To take her back to his apartment. He inhales deeply when he hangs up after a gruff _here_. Over and over as if somehow that would help. It won't. He knows it as soon as she comes hurrying down the front steps with a backpack swung over her shoulder, side eyeing the scum that lined the steps.

"You don't have to do this," she says pulling open the passenger door.

"I know," his voice is gruff, pointed, he keeps his eyes looking forward, "Get in."

No radio, nothing. Just the sound of breathing as they drive for thirty minutes to his apartment. It's a nicer neighborhood, not by much, no neighborhood is really good around here anymore. At least there's a security door, even if it is a broken piece of shit most of the time. They stand quietly in the elevator, she looks up, he looks forward. Trying not think about how she smells in such close quarters, the smell of lavender and shea will linger in his nostrils and apartment for days. Down one hall, take a turn and then his door. He slides the key in the lock. The second he turns it, this is real. He'll be alone with her. Wholly and truly alone.

Stepping inside and holding the door open for her, "It isn't much," offering the words as if somehow that would explain why she shouldn't consider herself a bother.

There's a clearly unused kitchen to her left, more likely used only to reheat take out and keep alcohol cold. And small living room in front of her, couch, chair, coffee table, television. A hallway to her left no doubt leads to the bedroom and bathroom. There aren't any pictures, save that same picture from his office. She must be the allegory, why John had picked her for this task.

"I'll be out by the morning," wringing her bags strap in her hands, jumping ever so slightly when he slams the door closed and flips the lock.

He shook his head, turning slowly to meet her eyes, "What're you scared of, Frankie?"

The way he's looking at her, like he has the power between them, "It's not you, if that's what you're asking. There's a lot you'd do, things that I should be scared of, but not to me," flexing her hands, rolling her shoulders, "I have to change a few bandages,"he can't take his eyes of the way her slender neck moves, "Where's your bathroom?" how each roll thrusts her pert chest forward.

He pointed down the hall. Why he can't want her? He's starting to forget the answer.

He's managed to down three drinks in the 30 minutes she'd spent in the bathroom. Sometimes she hisses or yelps, he hears it leaning beside the bathroom door as he takes big, long gulps of whiskey. He doesn't move from his position as the knob turns and she pulls the door open. And she doesn't seem too shocked by it. Gone is the long sleeved turtle neck and baggy jeans, traded for a tank top and sweats, the evidence of her survival seemed so much more important in person. When he could reach out and feel each ridge, unlike the smooth surface of the tech's photos. She looks up at him, face clear of make up where he can see the evidence of her life before Jigsaw's test. A thin a scar across her upper lip where it'd been ripped open by a ringed fist, the slight crookedness of her nose, but all he can focus on is how soft her gunmetal eyes are when they look at him. Somehow it feels like she sees right through him and knows exactly what he is, even if he wasn't sure who he was anymore.

_Why can't I want her?_

"I should get to bed, so I can get out of your way," she sighs, leaning against the hallway's corner.

Running away, "You need to stop doing that," climbing to his feet, stepping closer to her, "Stop acting like her," grabbing her wrist just as he had in the car, but he doesn't plan on letting go quite yet.

"Tell me what you want from me," it's a demand. Why? Why does it matter to him? "Normally, I can tell, men aren't difficult to read but…" looking as if she wanted to return his touch and found herself simply unable to take that next step, simply cocking her head to the side,

"I don't know," it was the only honesty he could provide her now, maybe ever, "Take the bed, I'm used to the couch."

"If that's what you want," it isn't but what he wants, she can't give. Not just yet. And he won't ask.

He loosens his grip on her wrist as he takes the last step towards her, "Sleep well," pressing a kiss to her forehead.

He stepped around her with a heavy sigh, steps taking him straight to the whiskey. She takes her bag from the bathroom and steps into the door across the hall. Just a closet, a bed and a nightstand. The bed is still perfectly made. He hasn't slept in it for days. Maybe even weeks. Only he knows exactly how long. And she's the first one to sleep in it, she'd overpower the abandoned fabric with her scent that would never quite wash out. If only in his mind. Just as the kiss seared into her forehead would never leave her mind, never be unfelt. No truly.

_Do you like how control feels, Frankie?_

She lays in the bed, waiting for silence, it doesn't take long. The cup clatters not too long after she climbs into the bed. He knocks on the door, forgetting a blanket and pillow. She pretends to be asleep, she knows the act far too well. He stands there for longer than she expects, staring, as if he doesn't quite believe she's asleep but didn't have quite enough proof to do anything about it. It was oddly exciting, whatever exactly was happening and the power she had over it. Over him, so much of it so quickly. It would make everything easier in a way and everything else harder. She tries not to think about that, trying to count the seconds in her mind until she just gives up. If she doesn't do it now, she never will. And she has to, if she has to do this, she's going to do it right.

Slowly she climbs from the bed, standing just in front of the closed door. She thinks of all those times she stood like this as Adrian threw himself over and over again at the wood until it splintered and cracked. She remembered the fear and felt her breath quicken like it had then. Just enough fear to feel worried. To feel somehow alone. It cements the decision. There was control in vulnerability, she had already discovered that, it's how she ended up here.

Frankie crept down the hall, she could see him sitting up on the couch, at the sound of her feet shuffling through the carpet in the dead silence of the apartment.

"Mark?" even in the darkness she can feel his gaze, sharper than any of those nails, "Come to bed," keeping her voice quiet, calm, as she turned back around and returned from the room.

She sits on the bed, arms around her knees, waiting for him. Knowing he'll come. He doesn't say anything when he does, neither of them do as he steps across the room still in his slacks and button up and lays himself on the bed. She glances at him, before unfurling herself, laying beside him. It's not up to her what comes next, there's always the chance she will be wrong. She hopes once or twice she will be. But this is not one of those times. The barest tips of his fingers run along the back of her hands, trailing along the sensitive skin between each puncture, slowly, softly. Up and down, moving higher and higher on each trip upward. Over her wrist, her arm, along her bicep, she feels him roll on his side. He wants her but he can't have her, not yet, and it makes his blood boil. He still hasn't learned delayed gratification and there may not be enough lessons left for him to learn, it feels easy to fall into that role for him. Over her shoulder, along the curve of her neck, the fluttering feeling builds in her stomach again, she's surer now about what it is. What it means. She can't fall into it fully, not yet.

"I'm okay," she finally whispers into the dark, his movements don't stop, all the way back down to the tips of her fingers before begin it's steady journey back upward, "You don't have to."

"I know," it's deep, quiet, somewhere between real words and just a breath, somewhere between his tone and his fingers caressing her skin, goosebumps rise on her skin and a shiver makes its way up and down her spine, "You need to sleep," but he makes no attempt to move, fingers brushing across her cheek.

"So do you," letting out a long breath that shook more than she would have like, his breath hitches.

Mark was good at taking these days. He knew how to do it so well under John's guidance. But he couldn't with her, he knew how close she had been to the end. To where his sister had ended up. It still hadn't stopped him from taking what he could, her presence, the barest brushes of his skin against hers, and now this. She rolled on her side, facing him now. His hand had stopped it's journey to hold the curve of her jaw in his palm, her hands moved slowly, tentatively, her fingers brushed the button of his shirt, sliding slowly until her own palm pressed to the front of his chest. It was as if he'd stopped breathing, he hadn't expected her to touch back. To give so freely, so soon. It took everything in him not to let out an animalistic growl.

"_Sleep, Mark_,_"_ moving herself closer, not enough to touch but close enough to feel her, somehow.

He nods, pressing his lips to her forehead once more. He doesn't move, inhaling the scent of her hair, reveling in the newest touch offered so freely to him.

_It wasn't long before a wolf would burst from the skin, was it?_


	6. precious things need special handling

Light blares through the cracks of the blinds when she finally opens her eyes the next day, she expects to be alone. That he's gone to the station as he should. But he's still there, running his fingers through her hair, looking down at her like she was something beautiful. She hums, blinking the drowsiness from her eyes as her body beginning to stretch as a young took over her face. That ghost of a smile passes over his lips again.

"You stayed," voice still heavy from sleep.

He ran his thumb along the curve of her cheek, "You asked."

"I could ask a lot," curling her fingers in the newly exposed collar of his undershirt, "I could ask more than you could give," this is why she had been sent here, what John had known that neither of them could, "What if I do?"

He shook his head, "Never," there's something in his eyes and when he leans forward, incapable of hiding what he wants anymore, "Anything you ask," and he wants her, "I'll do," all of her.

She believes him, it's the price he'll pay for his lust, his need, he will cease to have only himself. Her weight will becomes his and it will become both their fates his choices controlled. She does exactly as she's meant to and takes the last step into his lion's den. She will never truly leave this place, she knows that now. The moment she had asked what happened next, he had drawn her in him, whether she had realized it.

Truthfully, she had never expected his kiss to be tender. Mark didn't seem quite like the kind of man to take slowly, so slowly it made some part of her ache to give him everything that was left of her. He simply pressed his lips to hers, the barest of pressure, his body stock still. As if he thought she would decide this was something terrible and run from him. Frankie wouldn't, she couldn't. Not anymore. Straightening her fingers, she ran them along the hollow of his neck, over his Adam's apple, along the strong curve of his jaw, feeling the smallest groan from him against her lips. She feels his muscles tense, aching to surge forward, to devour her, held down by just the barest bits of self control he'd managed to hide away for moments like these.

"Anything?" she mumbled against his lips, he hissed, surprised at the rage that filled him when their lips had barely parted.

He hummed against her lips, the barest approval he could give and continue to taste her. He knows what will come next. She can't go back there. She'll invade his life, digging her way into his home, his mind. But it doesn't sound so bad when he feels her her mouth open, just the barest bit, inviting him into her, just the barest bit. It's him who breaks their embrace, knowing if he doesn't he never will, that red hot fire fills him again and he pushes it down with familiar practice, years on the force have taught him how to hold it together. He hadn't come this close to breaking since...

"I should drop you off," sitting up slowly on the bed so he could stand, "It'll take you a while to pack, gives me time to go by the station-"

"Mark..." her voice soft, she doesn't know how to argue with him because it's exactly what she was going to ask, he shouldn't know that.

"Anything."

He grasps the back of her neck tightly, pressing his lips tightly against hers once more for just a few seconds. It's all he could trust himself with. And for just a moment, Frankie wondered if this is what falling in love was supposed to feel like.

He'll call when he's on his way to get her, she opens her mouth to argue, and he simply leans over her to pop open the passenger door. He can't help wrapping himself in her scent as he does and forces himself back into his seat before he found himself distracted by her once again. She smiles, climbing from the seat, and slamming the door, making her way up the stairs. He doesn't pull away from the curb for a few more minutes, not till he sees her staring out the window of the run down apartment.

He rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, he had hoped the time alone, the time at the station, it would give him a chance to ease his swirling thoughts. The second John had chosen her he knew, everything was going to change. He'd even been warned, in those strange riddles the older man was so capable of stringing together without even trying. Watching her sleep, hair across her face, and peaceful, it's the first time since she'd been picked out of the crowd she had seemed truly peaceful. Mark just hadn't prepared for how much everything was going to change, he couldn't have even he had known.

Why can't I have her? Not want, have...

It doesn't surprise Frankie to find the door cracked, there was only so long John would leave her to her own devices. She had just hoped to have more of a handle on what was happening before she was forced to lay it all bare. Easing the door open, she finds him leaning against the narrow counter that separated kitchen from living room, a second mug of tea is still steaming on the stained yellow laminate.

"Just a minute," it's a breath, closing the door quickly and hurrying over to the window, his car is still there but not for long, as if he had been waiting for a sign she'd made it upstairs before he dared leave her on her own.

Once he's turned the corner, completely out of sight, she turns. He's behind her, holding the cup out to her. She doesn't keep him waiting, taking it and wetting her suddenly dry tongue with the warm drink. It's sweet in a natural way, floral, comforting. It makes her smile without thinking.

"You're healing well?" he's genuinely hopeful that she is and pleased to see her nod, taking another sip from the drug store ceramic, "I supposed this will be the last time we meet here, won't it?" She clears her throat, trying not to let the surprise show and knowing he could see it, brighter than any light, "We both knew where this would lead, Francesca," gripping her bicep gently, "There's no shame in it, you know? Love, no matter it's shape, is always a wonderful thing."

"I wouldn't," she shook her head, setting the cup down with a thud and splash on the windowsill, "I wouldn't call it that."

"What would you call it then?" she opens her mouth and closes it, eyes fluttering around the room as if suddenly the answers would appear on the pealing walls, "There's no shame in it," he pulls his hand from her arm and pushes her hair back over her shoulder, "You're starting over, trying to find what you weren't allowed. And he has a certain charm."

She leaned back against the wood, hoping the hard edge digging into the small of her back and the still aching wounds there would ground her, "I still don't understand," she doesn't mean what he's saying, what means, she's speaking of what's happening inside her head, inside her heart.

"You're right, that's rather unfair of me," setting is empty mug down, "We can always talk about it later, I have more pressing questions."

Mark had naively believe he would be able to easily make it through the day, that he would walk into the station and instinct would take over, he could banish the red head from his mind for a few hours. And if there had been another a victim, he might have. But it was still too early, she'd survived and they would see another sooner than normal, but a week was much to soon. If he'd been able to pull himself out of his brood he would have considered that, walking into the bullpen. Instead he's greeted by small pictures of previous victims and larger one's of her. The curve her waist, the bloodied just of her hip bone, he can feel himself breaking. Tapp is trying to get his attention but he moves quickly, yanking his phone out of his pocket and holding up a hand as he enters his office, slamming the door hard. The blinds jump and he's glad they're still closed. He takes a few deep breaths, it's a familiar feeling, like the first time he'd seen his handiwork up on the board but not quite the same thing.

This was deep, a masculine feeling to both protect and ravish that he tried to quell with clenched eyes and even breathing. Just a few hours, he'll tell them she's being moved to a secure location for her own safety on a need to know basis. Him being the only one that needed to know and he'd get her. Maybe if he managed to find his fill of her, he could pretend to function when she was brought to attention. With one last shuttering breath, he flicked the blinds open, and stepped back into the hallway. Whatever Tapp had to say must be important because he had waited just across the hall for him to step out of the office.

John hadn't stayed much longer, discussing the logistics of the four walls now that she would no longer dwell between them. He was happy to do whatever he like with it, her name had never been on the lease and who knows how long it would before Adrian's death made it's way to the landlord. She didn't want to think about any of that, John was all to happy to take it from her, provided she didn't ask question. Frankie wouldn't have asked even if she wanted to. He left her with well wishes and a promise to be in contact not to far off, before leaving her in the emptiness of the apartment.

It doesn't take long to pack up what she needs, there aren't many things she wants to keep, mostly out of necessity. She pulls a few hidden items that do mean something from beneath the loose tile in the corner of the bathroom. A few photos from before, before everything in her life had gone so wrong. An jeweled hair clip her grandmother had given her, it was a costume piece but she had always treated it as if each glass gem were real. Tucking them in the front of a duffle bag. A few toiletries, what clothes she could stand the idea of against her skin. None of them chosen by Adrian, no she plans to leave him in this room. John will take care of him here just as he had done in that warehouse.

The cheap phone rings, "I'm almost there," three words, followed by dial tone.

If she were her, the doll Mark had demanded she stopped becoming, the worry that she had angered him would have crossed her mind. Her mind flashes the memory of this morning, bright, and something just down the street from perfect. She hauls the overstuffed thing over her shoulder, it's lighter than expected but still causes her shoulder to droop. She locks the door behind her, pulling the key off the loop and slipping it on the top of the door jam. Managing to balance the bag on the handrail, pressing it slightly against the wall, Frankie prepared for the treacherous climb downward. She'd made it about three steps when she hears the scuffle and creak of heavy steps on aging wood. The last thing she wanted to do right now is talk to anyone here, she just wanted to get out of this place, this life.

"You should've asked me to help," he's not angry but there's a tone of disappointment, of hurt.

There's no fight when he takes the bag from her, "I'm not used to," it sounds so pitiful and she hates that's how it comes out.

"I know," she expects him to lead their descent out of this decaying place and to somewhere that didn't hold the stench of a life she'd rather forget, "That's why I'm here," he hauls it over the opposite shoulder, gripping her hand tightly, the only touch he dared to trust, even then he's not sure if it was the right choice. It's sends a jolt through him and far to visible shock through her, "Come on, let's get you home."

It slips before he has any chance to stop it. A small smile twitches her lips, taking the first step downward.

The first step home.


End file.
